A Poppy grows upon the shore Bursts her twin cup in summer late: Her leaves are glaucous green and hoar, Her petals yellow, delicate. Oft to her cousins turns her thought, In wonder if they care that she Is fed with spray for dew, and caught By every gale that sweeps the sea. She has no lovers like the Red That dances with the noble Corn: Her blossoms on the waves are shed, Where she sits shivering and forlorn.
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After Kipling HE sits in a sea-green grotto with a bucket of lurid paint, And draws the Thing as it isn’t for the God of things as they ain’t. |
In this May-month, by grace of heaven, things shoot apace. The waiting multitude of fair boughs in the wood,— How few days have arrayed their beauty in green shade! What have I seen or heard? it was the yellow bird Sang in the tree: he flew a flame against the blue; Upward he flashed.... |
A Poppy grows upon the shore Bursts her twin cup in summer late: Her leaves are glaucous green and hoar, Her petals yellow, delicate. Oft to her cousins turns her thought, In wonder if they care that she Is fed with spray for dew, and caught By every gale that sweeps the sea. She has no... |
To a Friend Dying THEY tell you that Death ’s at the turn of the road, That under the shade of a cypress you ’ll find him, And, struggling on wearily, lashed by the goad Of pain, you will enter the black mist behind him. I can walk with you up to the ridge of the hill, And we ’ll talk of... |
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So sweet love seemed that April morn, When first we kissed beside the thorn, So strangely sweet, it was not strange We thought that love could never change. But I can tell—let truth be told— That love will change in growing old; Though day by day is naught to see, So delicate his motions be. And... |
